Page 44 of The Prices We Pay
Or that the four men I have the hots for are members of an elite and illusive mercenary group.
Choices, choices, choices.
I think that me not being as freaked out as I should be in a situation like this says a lot about my mental state.
A childhood full of trauma will do that to a person.
Not wanting to go down that road in the middle of the night, I throw off my covers and head to my bedroom door, but stop only before I reach it, remembering that Enzo is currently down the hall, and I don’t sleep with a shirt on. I throw on my old Palm University T-shirt but don’t even bother to put shorts on, knowing he’s probably asleep anyway. They all insisted they wanted to stay up throughout the night, but I told them that was ridiculous, especially considering my building’s security system. To which Dante and Sebastianreplied that they would be taking a look into that first thing Monday morning.
I pad across my apartment in my T-shirt and black panties toward my kitchen in search of a cup of chamomile tea. It’s my go-to when I can’t sleep. Filling up the kettle, I place it on the stove and rummage through my extensive mug collection, wanting to pick the perfect one. The perfect coffee cup can quite literally affect the way your drink tastes, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I smile when I see one of my favorites—a purple mug with a floral print. It has a pretty cursive script that reads, “Fuck, this is good.”
As I open the fridge to grab my oat milk, I feel a body press against my back. I should have known he wouldn’t have gone to sleep.
Grabbing the milk, I close the fridge and set it on the counter next to me, not moving from my spot. Enzo grips my waist from behind, and I don’t say a word when he groans as his hands tighten. My body relaxes against him before he reaches up and swipes my black hair over one shoulder. Leaning forward, his breath skates across the shell of myear on the opposite side. Goosebumps cover my skin, but I still don’t say a word, and neither does he. Neither of us wants to break the spell of whatever is about to happen in the dead of the night. The sound of the water stirring inside the kettle and our heavy breathing are the only noises in the apartment.
Enzo’s hands glide over my hips and down my thighs until they reach the hem of my shirt. He pauses for a moment to see if I’ll stop him, and when I don’t, his hands move back up, but underneath my shirt this time. His warm hands brush over the goosebumps covering my skin until his hold stills on my ribcage just below my breasts.
My breath grows ragged beneath his hands as he gently kisses the side of my neck, then gently nips at my skin with his teeth before he removes his mouth. My head falls backward at the sensation, resting perfectly on the side of his chest. And when his thumb brushes along the bottom of my breast, my mouth falls open.
“Tell me to stop, Sweetheart.” He takes the lobe of my ear between his teeth and pulls gently. I hiss atthe light sting but don’t say a word. Instead, I reach down, grab the hem of my shirt, and pull it over my head. Spinning to face him, I let the shirt dangle between my fingers before dropping it to the floor at my side.
His eyes rake over my body, now only dressed in a pair of black panties, and I can practically feel his stare leave marks on my skin.
He’s not the only one, though.
Enzo’s dressed in the clothes Dante sent over for him after I went to bed. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, which is a stark contrast against the black ink that covers his arms, and a pair of dark gray sweatpants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, considering I can see the outline of his erection as clear as day. But perhaps the best part of his outfit isn’t what he’s wearing, but the absence of it. Enzo’s barefoot in my kitchen, looking at me like I’m a midnight snack he wants to devour, and it’s an image I want burned into my brain until the end of time.
“Jesus fucking Christ.” He scrubs his hand over his face. “I knew you were perfect for me, but… you’re absolutely stunning, Josephine Jenkins.”
My body heats at the compliment. I watch his eyes darken before he says, “Now, let me see the rest of you.”
I don’t hesitate for a second because I know what comes after if I do this. And I want it so damn bad, I could cry. I want to be cherished. To be ravaged. To be fucked so hard, I’ll feel it for days on end. And I want that from him.
Right here, right now.
“Every single inch of you,” he growls before he crashes his body against mine. With one hand wrapped around my waist and one threaded through my hair, he kisses me as if I’m the very air he needs to survive—as if he’s been fighting to do this every second of every day since we met.
Eagerly, I grip the hem of his shirt and work it up his torso, only for it to get stuck at his armpits. He chuckles against my lips and lifts his arms in the air, allowing me to push it up past his head. He works it off his arms and chucks it across thekitchen as I start working his sweats down his legs. Following my lead once again, he kicks his pants off, stumbling in the process. I tip my head back in laughter, and his entire face lights up.
Reaching for him, I spin us around and push him against the fridge with a thud. His eyes widen before he jokes, “Careful, Sweetheart. I’m going to think you’re stronger than me.”
“Oh, I am stronger than you, Lorenzo.”
“Good. I like to be thrown around,” he answers with a wink.
I drag my nails down his abdomen, watching in sweet satisfaction as his muscles tense, before grabbing his briefs and sliding them down so they pool at his ankles. Like he did his pants, he toes them off and kicks them across the kitchen. I don’t notice if he stumbles this time, though, because I’m too focused on the artwork that covers his body. There’s truly not a bare inch of skin, and I fucking love it.
Some people don’t think so, and that’s totally fine, but I find tattoos beautiful. They’re an extension of a person. They’re a way to archive a person’shistory, thoughts, feelings, and interests. They make a person unique in the most stunning way. And I can tell, even in my dimly lit kitchen, that I could spend hours tracing Enzo’s tattoos and never tire of it. My eyes trace the artwork down his abdomen, only to stop once they reach his hard cock.
Just when I think I couldn’t be more impressed with the man in front of me, my jaw pops open when I spot the piercing through the head of his dick.
“See something you like?”
“I—you—is that?”
“A piercing? Sure as shit is, Sweetheart.” I lick my lips at the sight, and even though I’m not looking at his face, I know his smile only grows wider. “Keep looking at my cock like that, Joe…”
My eyes meet his, and I grin wickedly. “And what, Enz?”
